


all that we let in

by psikeval



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is human, and she loves him, and if she spends another ten minutes with him she is probably going to scream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all that we let in

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/10371.html?thread=42983043#t42983043) kink meme prompt.

The afternoon spent in Denerim after they visit Goldanna is not… completely awful.

But it’s a very near thing.

Morrigan, bless the Creators, somehow ends up taking the mantle of being the cheerful one, prowling the streets of the market district with poorly-concealed fascination in her eyes. As for her hound, Banquo finds more than one friend among the children of Denerim, who are quite accustomed to mabari and chatter at him as if he were just another playmate. He prances among them like a puppy, quickly picking up games of catch-and-chase.

Which leaves Lyra some space to be with Alistair, even if they can’t be alone. Even if, deep down, she’s grateful for that, because she has _no idea_ what she would say.

From his dream of Goldanna in the Fade, she’d expected... well. Stupid to consider. She’d seen his desires made manifest by demons, what he wanted to believe and nothing more. And now that they’ve met the real Goldanna, she has no words to address this—this empty space he’s left with, where those dreams had taken root. A chasm of unmet hope.

The truth is, she’s never believed in much. Not gods, or fate, or family long forgotten; she trusts in the skill of others, once proved; she trusts in herself. Alistair has always been the better person between them, faithful and big-hearted and so easily bruised for all his strength. He deserves more, Lyra thinks, than her stilted, stumbling sympathy.

As they turned away from Goldanna’s house, she’d reached out and taken his hand.

The gesture is human, and uncomfortable for that, calling to mind Morrigan’s shuddering mention of _so much touching_ — but Alistair’s surprise, the cracked-open way he’d stared down at their gloved hands, clumsily linked — she isn’t about to stop. Not when, every so often, Alistair’s mouth crumples just a little and his grip tightens and all she can do is squeeze back.

So they walk on, over dusty streets and crumbling cobblestones, small hopeful patches of grass. The afternoon sun is a pale fading heat at their backs, with the promise of a colder night to come. They walk, holding hands, without saying a word.

From time to time Morrigan will glance at them and roll her eyes, putting a nervous twist of dread in Lyra’s gut—she loves them both dearly, but _hates_ getting caught between them—but Morrigan holds her tongue for now, out of mercy or mere disinterest.

Whatever the reason, Lyra is grateful. She’s not, by nature, a peacemaker or a protector among friends, and it leaves her feeling strained and off-balance, this impulse to stand guard over someone else’s heart.

With no better idea of how she ought to act, she treats their remaining time in Denerim as she would most anywhere else. She sells some weapons that no one needs to the effusive purveyor of fine dwarven crafts; their recently acquired map to Haven shows a long journey ahead, and the extra coin will come in handy. She snaps at the idiot knight who wants to challenge her to a duel until he backs down, storming off alive and blissfully unaware of Morrigan’s murderous stare at his back. She does _not_ allow Banquo to collect any children.

Finally, Morrigan turns away from her game of criticizing a dressmaker’s wares as well as their clients, an air of long-suffering finality about her.

“I grow tired this place,” she announces, as if it’s she who’s been humoring them this whole time, and if it coincides too neatly with the growing exhaustion in Alistair’s eyes, his none-too-subtle glances at the city gates—well, Lyra knows better than to mention it.

She whistles for Banquo, who rushes over and happily collides with Alistair’s legs before settling down to walk with them out of the city. Since shortcuts in Denerim tend to lead nowhere but ambushes by bandits, who’d doubtless have to be killed in messy and time-consuming ways, they keep to the main streets until the last run-down houses on the outskirts are behind them, the wide and empty road south ahead. The others are waiting back at camp, a short walk east.

Banquo keeps to an elliptical orbit around them, minding his two-legged flock, and Morrigan’s thoughts are ever her own. Without the bustle of Denerim to serve as a distraction, the day’s silence settles heavy and prickling on Lyra’s skin — and like a fool, she decides to break it.

“I think you’d better go and wash your clothes when we get back,” she says lightly, nudging Alistair’s arm and offering up a half-smile. “Wynne’s getting that look in her eye.”

There’s hardly half a moment to hope she’s done the right thing before his frown deepens and the hope is dashed. “I don’t remember asking you to draw me up a schedule,” he says stiffly before turning his face away to glare at nothing.

“I didn’t mean…” It sounds weak and defensive, soft prey huddling in the brush and hoping to go unnoticed. Pathetic. Lyra shakes her head and stares unseeing at the path beneath her feet, leaves the words unfinished.

This, too, is a poor choice. Because of course, after Alistair, Morrigan is perhaps her closest friend in the world, and can be quite the thorny defender when she’s of a mind to be.

“’Twas you who said you’d rather follow, as _I_ recall,” she remarks behind them, clear and sharp, each word needling new tension into the set of Alistair’s shoulders. “Or has that changed?”

Instead of turning around he looks at Lyra like he’s been betrayed, as if all of this is her fault, a bid to twist the knife in his gut. “Could we _really_ not do this right now?”

“Oooh,” Morrigan coos, unruffled. “Touchy.”

“If you wanted to pretend for five minutes that you’re not a heartless _bitch_ —”

“Alistair!”

“What?! What is it now? Do I need your permission to speak?”

She can see Morrigan’s eyebrows climbing higher in the corner of her eye, and Alistair stops, swallows hard like he knows he’s gone too far, but offers no apology, takes nothing back.

“Fine. Banquo?” The mabari barks cheerfully up at her. “Race you back to camp.”

That’s one of the better things about having taken Banquo in, she thinks as she sprints surefooted down rocky hills towards the familiar circle of tents in the distance, leaving Alistair and Morrigan still squabbling behind. It feels less like running away with a war dog beside you.

 

\--

 

It’s particularly quiet around the fire that evening.

Perhaps it was only to be expected, between the day’s events and the weather. At night, the chill near the coast of Ferelden is particularly fierce, and with Sten and Banquo keeping watch, Alistair has traded in his armor for the thick blue sweater Wynne made for him back in Redcliffe. Lyra herself has dug up her weathered old fur cloak, and sits close enough to the fire that her face feels slightly roasted.

She’s heard rumors that her clan traveled north, to the sandy earth and heat of the Free Marches, and spares a moment to envy them. It’s nice to imagine them finding a safe place somewhere far away, at least for a year or two. Nice to think of joining them, someday, even if her chances seem to dwindle every day. Perhaps by then Merrill would be their Keeper.

Alistair clears his throat, and she jerks back from staring at the fire, unsure how long he’s been standing there. She has to crane her neck uncomfortably to meet his eyes.

“Do you mind if I, uh—” His gesture seems to encompass the entire area around her, which is… not unwise, truth be told. Wynne and Banquo are the only ones who’ve come anywhere near Lyra since their return, and they always have a free pass for that sort of thing. Hopping right over her boundaries unscathed.

Lyra shrugs, says “As long as you sit,” and turns her attention back to the flames. And he does settle down next to her, but then he just _sits_ there, staring nervously and fidgeting and somehow far more irritating than any of this should be. “Go ahead,” she prompts, too sharp but better than nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair blurts out immediately. “For the things I said earlier. I even apologized to Morrigan.”

“Even,” she repeats, dry as sun-bleached bone, and he at least has the grace to look guilty.

“No, you’re right. I know that, and I was— wrong. To say the least.”

For a moment Lyra just frowns at him, uncertain what to do. All her annoyance is fading fast, like it always does in the face of his damn sincerity, but she can’t quite let it go so easily.

“I know today was awful, but you can’t just take it out on the rest of us. There’s only so much we can do. Even Morrigan tried to go easy on y—”

“ _Even?_ ” he teases, and she swats him hard in the ribs.

“You know what I mean.” As sternly as she can, Lyra takes his arm and wraps it around her waist, leaning back against him. Maybe it’s all that human bulk, but he’s always so warm. She can hardly even feel the chill anymore.

“Right,” Alistair says, a smile in the softness of his voice, hugging her a little closer. “I’ll try not to do it again.”

“Good, then.”

She expects him to relax after that, but if anything he seems to tense up further, his arm a little too tight around her ribs. Like he’s using the contact to brace himself, somehow.

“Could I, uh. There was something else, if that’s… if you don’t mind.”

“Yes?” She turns a little, tucked in against his side, just enough to look up at him without losing too much of the heat between their bodies.

“I appreciate that you brought me to see my sister,” he says all in a rush, “and that you… well, that you were there to talk me down after we left. Even if I wasn’t exactly grateful. You’re a true friend, and…” Alistair swallows hard, glances down for just a moment before his eyes meet hers again, vulnerable and frightened but unflinching, always so brave for her, “and I love you. I just wanted to tell you that.”

_Oh_. Instinctive, for her to reach up and trace a hand over the side of his face, and for Alistair to lean into the touch, the breath shaking out of him, as if she’d just woken him from one of their nightmares. (As if, someday, they might not wake from nightmares at all.)

Easier than she expected, to say it back: “I love you, too.”

“Right! Well.” His head ducks down until his chin rests on his chest, which does little to hide his smile, or the dark-red flush spreading up his face. “Now that that’s, er, taken care of—”

She kisses him. Of course she does. He’s here and he’s hers and she’s keeping him, no reasons left to resist. Alistair makes a soft, heartbreakingly _happy_ sound before kissing back, slowly, his arms pulling her closer, nearly into his lap. On the other side of the fire, Zevran whistles appreciatively, and Lyra makes a gesture Tamlen taught her once, lifetimes ago.

And for a while, archdemon be damned, there’s not a single thing wrong in the world.

 

\--

 

If only it were so simple.

The following day, as they make their way south, their party is set upon by the biggest group of darkspawn they’ve yet seen on the roads. Sten, for all his talk of a woman’s place, is very nearly killed by the first wave, and survives the battle only because the darkspawn take him for dead; Alistair’s shield arm is broken in three places, to say nothing of bruised ribs and a sprained ankle, and Leliana is nearly as bad off as Sten. With Wynne forced to heal her own cracked skull before anything else, her powers and their dwindling supplies are stretched thin among the group, and they have no choice but to stop moving entirely until everyone is back on their feet.

An unavoidable setback, not worth regretting when the damage is done—if it weren’t for the fact that Alistair, forced into convalescence, can be such an absolute nightmare.

Nightmare is uncharitable, Lyra tells herself when he pouts over the slowness of natural healing or whines about the itching beneath his bandages. But Dread Wolf take them all, _someone_ at the chantry must have spoiled him terribly, or else he’s trying to make up for lost time.

Because it doesn’t only happen when he’s injured; she’s not so in love as to be blind. There’s almost always something, if they’ve been on the road long enough—tears in his clothes, Morrigan (unprovoked, he swears) being mean to him again, an absolutely dire need to be cuddled right this instant.

It can be endearing, but there are also times when her whole body aches with fatigue and every person in camp is cross for one reason or another and she just wants to throttle her beloved idiot and tell him to _grow up_. It’s a problem often solved by simply taking him to bed; his childish complaints seem to evaporate completely when given instructions on just how he ought to be touching her, and the end result is much more relaxing for everyone involved.

But even if she did have the energy or inclination now, Alistair isn’t in any shape for the exertion it usually takes to shut him up. So he clings and complains, and Lyra helps to keep him out of Wynne’s way as much as she can. After a week like this, one gets the impression that were she not so drained, their healer would be more than happy to liquefy the brains of anyone who gives her a moment’s trouble.

There comes a point where even Alistair’s human scent—heavy and golden-warm, as much a part of him as the steel and salt-air disapproval that radiates from Sten—is almost unbearable, overwhelmingly alien rather than comforting. Lyra wonders, sometimes, if the flaw lies in her, if at heart she’s too flighty for the devotion he’s given, but she tries very hard not to believe it.

The truth, she thinks, is much more simple: he is human, and she loves him, and if she spends another ten minutes with him she is probably going to scream.

And so, one morning, before the sun has even begun to rise, Lyra dresses and slips out of her tent, leaving Alistair fast asleep on the bedroll. She doesn’t bother with armor or even shoes, just slips on old clothes she hasn’t worn since leaving her clan, soft and silent.

As always, stepping out by the smoking ashes of the fire pit is enough to wake Zevran, who never seems to sleep so much as lightly doze. He raises his eyebrows as she circles towards the trunk full of weapons.

“Come on.” She tosses over his favorite bow and Zevran, in a rather impressive show of early-morning dexterity, catches it one-handed. “We’re going hunting.”

Banquo sniffs at her knee, a large and unwelcome companion on an outing like this. Too much warrior in him and almost nothing of a hunter. “Stay and guard,” she tells him, unmoved by his plaintive whine. “Or go and warm Alistair’s feet, whichever suits you.”

“You know,” Zevran says, a few moments later, when he’s caught up to her just at the edge of the forest, “I am not truly Dalish, nor was I trained to hunt as you do.”

“Can you shoot straight?”

“You insult me.” He sounds impressed, annoyed, and amused in equal parts.

“Only to make a point. You’ll do just fine.”

From her first step into the trees, the woods are soothing in a way that makes little rational sense. She does not know this place, cannot remember her clan ever staying near here. But the thick pine-needle bed on the ground, the scent of moss and damp dead leaves, are welcoming in ways that need not be explained. The old elvhen may have had their cities, their secrets and their sprawling long-dead empire, but the Dalish know that wild places are home.

Lyra breathes deep and feels the tension begin to unwind in her chest. When she finds a promising tree, the branches well spaced and solid enough to easily bear their weight, she and Zevran climb in silence to a good vantage point.

She’s never been much of an archer—better than a human, of course, but too hesitant, unwilling to take a shot she wasn’t sure of. Even when she was a child the clan knew Lyra was better with her blades, the one to make a close kill, end a creature’s suffering when an arrow missed its mark. Uncertainty bothered her, but blood never did. She didn’t flinch.

The quiet lasts longer than she expected before Zevran breaks it.

“So. Not that I mind an adventure with a beautiful woman,” he says, impossibly cheerful even when barely whispering, “but what, exactly, brings us here?”

“Did you not want to eat tonight?”

“Oh, like any traveler, I welcome the prospect of my next meal. Daily do I regret not having a recipe for Antivan chowder, that it might replace this brown Fereldan mush. But I did wonder if it might have something to do with our Grey Warden friend left back at camp.”

“Maybe you should wonder less.”

“You seem to be having a hard time lately, yes?”

Lyra twangs at her bowstring irritably, which of course is all the answer he needs.

“Ah, love.” He notches an arrow and fires without seeming to aim at all; still, out of sight there is the sound of something crashing down in the underbrush. “Is there anything so terrible?”

Lyra’s bow rests idle across her knees, and she drops her head back against the tree trunk, casting a dry look at Zevran. Now that they have something to bring back to camp — whatever it is; most likely a deer, by the sound of it — she’s hardly bothering to keep up even the pretense of hunting. “A cynic. I’m shocked.”

“Please, Warden, consider me only a romantic who has seen too much. I have every—” he breaks off, eyes narrowed, and glances sharply at Lyra. “Do you hear that?”

A faint rustling from below, like something—

She glances down and nearly falls from her branch, muffling a reflexive, startled shriek with the palm of her hand. It isn’t her fault. The sight of a giant spider scuttling up the tree towards them with a rattling _hiss_ would be enough to frighten anyone, even if, a moment later, she recognizes the green-purple iridescence of those particular bristling legs.

Zevran doesn’t move an inch, as if frozen on the spot, but he shuts his eyes and swears at length in Antivan as the spider crawls higher above them, only to drop down next to him on a shining strand of silk.

“So easily alarmed,” says Morrigan smugly, arranging her human body with impeccable balance. “Dark days, when our fearless leader has fallen so far.”

“You know, there was once a great Antivan general who was deathly afraid of much smaller creatures. Might have been murdered, might have simply thrown himself into the canal on purpose to avoid a stray beetle. Impossible to say,” Zevran shrugs, and Lyra can’t quite tell if he meant to defend her or not. There isn’t much point in trying to figure it out, with him.

“What brings you out here?” she asks Morrigan instead.

“Should I have stayed in camp, with everyone else still abed? These days have been dull enough without sitting about and counting the snores of invalids, waiting for good company.”

Even so small an admission of friendship is enough to make Morrigan look swiftly away from them, her neck held stiffly. It would be Lyra’s nature to let the moment pass unmentioned, so as not to worsen her palpable nervousness, but of course Zevran’s face is already alight with glee.

“Why, my sweet bewitching temptress, I had no idea—”

“Be silent. I meant only the Warden.”

“But simply to not be counted among the invalids! My heart swells, to say nothing of—”

“Indeed,” Morrigan spits out before he can continue, white-violet lightning quietly crackling in her left hand, “to say nothing is your only hope of surviving another moment.”

“Oh, but how I have lived, knowing that you adore me so.”

He sighs up at the sky, loud and heartfelt, utterly ridiculous, and Lyra can’t help laughing. She tries to stifle it, but when a giggle escapes she’s rewarded by their eyes turning towards her, Zevran’s flash of a grin and Morrigan’s cautious curling half-smile.

It’s not so bad, she’s found. Having friends.

 

\--

 

Less than a week later, Lyra is lying wide awake, tapping her fingernails restlessly against the side of the tent. It’s well past midnight, chillier with every day’s travel south, and their pile of blankets passing for a bed is cold whenever she moves a fraction of an inch from the spot she’s warmed, because Alistair still isn’t in it. He’s staring at Genitivi’s notes by candlelight, as he has been for hours.

For all that she loves him, and all his talents as templar and Grey Warden, Alistair is no scholar. None in their party can lay claim to such a title, and if anyone were to try it would most certainly be Wynne—whose reply, when given the sheaf of papers, was that she knew little of cults and far less of dragons, but they might try to pick up their pace to Haven all the same.

There’s no point in Alistair exhausting himself over these dense, cryptic scribblings. A cure for Eamon’s poisoning is hardly going to suddenly reveal itself in the margins, whether he reads it seven times or seven hundred. All he’s going to do is drive the both of them mad.

“Alistair,” she tries for the fourth time, sitting up and ignoring his pointed huff of annoyance. “Come to bed.”

He looks ready to throw the papers at her. “Is that seriously all you can think of?!”

“Yes!” Lyra snaps, throwing up her hands — she never used to do that, has probably picked it up from Morrigan without noticing — and beneath her exasperation lurks something very much like hurt. “Right now, it is. Is that so terrible?”

“Arl Eamon is _dying_!”

“And we’re here,” she manages through gritted teeth. “We are camping for the night so we can all get some rest, and I don’t think the world is going to fall apart if you _fuck_ me!”

The word comes out awkward and too loud, unfamiliar on her lips, like a child’s attempt to swear. It’s that more than anything else that makes her flush red and wish that she could bring herself to look away from Alistair’s wide brown eyes.

Outside by the fire, Zevran says something to the others. His voice is low, the actual words inaudible, but just hearing him is enough to bring back Alistair’s stubborn scowl.

“Well, fine. If you wanted someone who’s always up for it, maybe you should have gone after your pet assassin instead.”

And oh, he is good at this game, for all his childishness—or, perhaps, because of it; fury prickles instantly under her skin. She's on her feet, and Alistair only a moment behind, stumbling a hurried half-step away from her. _Good_. “An elf is no one’s plaything.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“And you know that I’ve been going endlessly back and forth across this country trying to help the Arl and his people! From the village to the castle to Circle Tower and back, to Denerim and now Haven—” She drags a hand through her hair. “Mythal only knows what Sten will say about me this time. Alistair, I’m tired. My feet hurt and I can’t stop _thinking_ and I just wanted to…”

The words trail off, her shoulders slumped, too weary to hold on to anger. Alistair steps closer, something like concern or regret in his eyes, and takes her face in his hands, brushes his thumbs gently over her cheeks. “To what?”

She shakes her head, but can’t bring herself to refuse him— she doesn’t know how to say it, doesn’t know if it even can be said, but she at least owes it to him to try. “The other night, you said that— that around me, you feel like your head will explode.”

“You said you felt the same.” There’s a lingering wonder in his tone, in the curve of his smile.

“I guess that’s not really true.” Too late, Lyra winces, hearing the words as they emerge, and grabs at Alistair’s wrists before he can move, makes herself look at the hurt on his face. “No, wait. Please. I only meant—” she breaks off, cursing in her own tongue, and lets her head drop forward to rest against the broad warmth of his chest.

“What?” he asks, more wounded than a single word has any right to be.

“It’s more that when I’m with you, I feel like maybe it won’t. Explode.” She swallows, staring blindly at the fabric of his shirt. Rough undyed cloth, at least one tear recently and messily mended, she loves him, she _loves him_. “That maybe I’ll really get through all of this.”

A soft, stunned _oh_ against her hair, more breath than word, and then Alistair is lifting her chin up with his fingertips, infinitely gentle, and kissing her. It warms her, like the glow of healing magic unfurling in her blood, and she melts into the feeling, into him.

And maybe she has been too harsh, demanding he set aside his concerns. Maybe it was selfish. It’s easier to be generous when he’s right here to be touched and her hands can brush along the lines of his arms, trace over his shoulders and chest and around to circle his waist, ’til her fingers are splayed at the small of his back, holding him.

“I love you. I’m—”

“Nope,” he interrupts, pressing the pad of his thumb gently against her lips. “ _I’m_ sorry, for being a bastard. No other apologies allowed, I’m afraid.”

She nips at his thumb, and he makes a quiet, beautiful noise and kisses her again, his hands finally roaming down her body, pulling her closer. Lyra scrapes her fingers through the mess of his hair, absolutely willing to play dirty for the way he always shudders and goes pliant in her arms. There’d been something she meant to…

Ah, yes. With a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth, Lyra leans away.

“But Alistair,” she says, delighted as always to have found a pun, “aren’t you always…?”

“Oh, a bastard joke, hilarious.” His dry tone is ruined by the fond, helpless grin on his face. “What will you think of next?”

She smiles, for him, for _them_ , wide and bright. “Well.”

 

\--

 


End file.
